SHADOWS

It often saddens me to think
     That most facets of your being,
     All that I depend on seeing
Are meaningless to this art that I perform,

Which takes the shadow of your form
     As an image present in every age,
     On the turning of any page,
And ignores much that makes you pause, or smile.

Should these words endure history’s trial
     Much of what I seem to be, or do,
     Most of what I say to you,
Shall be forgotten; and this inevitable plight

Is the present darkness of a future light;
     If then, men pause upon my being
     They shall know that they are seeing
Substance to the shadow that made me think.